


Standstill

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Post-Episode: s11e09 O Brother Where Art Thou
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:51:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5497682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set immediately after the season eleven midseason finale. Sam has been brought back by Castiel, and even though it was only days on Earth, it was much, much, longer in Hell, and Dean is almost afraid to walk into Sam's room and see how broken he is. Mostly just a therapeutic hurt/comfort piece for my sad-about-Sam soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standstill

**Author's Note:**

> I can't stop writing pieces about the midseason finale, help me.

Dean was beyond consolable, beyond homicidal, and, in brief moments of sanity, he was grateful the bunker was so secluded, so locked down, because he knew with startlingly clear certainty that he’d be taking this out on someone if he were in public, tearing innocent flesh from bone.

The thought jarred him, but it didn’t stop the blood from humming furiously through his body, didn’t stop his hands from curling into trembling fists. He paced like a caged, abused lion (and tried not to relate Sam to the metaphor), the stacks of books in the library spinning around him as he turned and turned, trying to distract himself from the fact of the matter. From the nightmare that reality had become.

The reality of the situation was Sam, down in the deepest, darkest pit of hell, _again_ , with a creature that knew him from the inside out–knew all his fears and shames, his hopes and dreams, and had perfectly mastered the art of using them against Sam. He remembered how sunken and haunted Sam’s eyes had been back when hallucinations gave him no respite, remembered hearing him choke whispered arguments in the dead of night to devils that didn’t exist. He had been given a gist of what Sam had gone through, a little sneak-peek, nothing more.

But this, this was different. This was not just beating a man when he was down, this was beating a man to death and following him into the afterlife and beating him there. Beyond that. Beyond thought, beyond words, beyond pain. He almost didn’t want to see Sam, didn’t want to see what hell had done to him. His eyes filled rapidly and burned when he thought of the bright-eyed boy Sam had used to be, so cheerful and curious, causing all his teachers to reccommend he skip a grade, get him tested, ‘cause this boy was a genius in the making, and a real sweetheart to bat. He thought of shiny brown curls and hazel eyes, flecked with gold, always thinking, crinkling up and looking oh-so-beautiful.

Each second that Castiel didn’t return with his battered little brother was days in hell. Each hour was an eternity, and god, it had been days since Crowley delivered the bad news over the phone, passive and mild, hanging up before Dean could even let go of the breath he was holding. Sam had been down there for a lifetime. A lifetime of hurt, and Dean feared it might be enough to blur away reality, to make it a doubt instead of a truth, distorting Sam’s mind until all he knew was agony.

Dean stopped thinking about it. He kept pacing. He knew if he stopped that he’d break down and be no use to Sam. He couldn’t have that.

He channeled his feelings back into bright anger, directing it at Crowley and Rowena. The hesitant armistice he’d had with the demon was completely gone, the awkward camaraderie completely forgotten. He was consumed with a bloodlust that reminded him of his time in his own hell. He needed them both dead. Rowena, the manipulative, scheming witch, was at the top of his list for forcing Sam onward, for dropping him into a fire and dancing off. The world was black and white in Dean’s eyes again, no more confusing, murky greys, and he vowed to right things with a gun in his hand a vengeance in his heart.

First and foremost, though, came Sam, and Sam alone. And Dean didn’t really know how to fix a humpty-dumpty who had been atomized.

He sank to the floor, holding his head in his hands. His brain juddered to a stop, humming in sympathetic pain with Sam and fuzzing out the rest of his thoughts. His lips twisted up as he held back a cry, breathing roughly through his nose.

It was the flutter and flap of wings that caused his head to shoot up, his bloodshot eyes scanning around the room like the movement of a hummingbird’s wings, flitting left to right and back again until his eyes landed on Castiel, standing a ways off.

Standing a ways off, empty-handed.

Dean stumbled upright, going briefly dizzy as the blood rushed away from his head. He leaned against a table for support, blinking at Cas as he approached.

“Where the fuck is Sam?!” Dean barked when he found his voice, getting into Castiel’s space and glaring at him, his eyes dark and sharp. “Where the fuck is he, Cas?”

“Dean, it’s okay,” Cas assured him, holding his hands out in a calming manner. “I put him in his room so he could rest.”

Dean shoved past him, breaking into a run as he entered the hall in which Sam’s room lay. When he turned the corner, Cas was standing in front of Sam’s door, barring his entry.

Dean saw red. “If you don’t let me see my brother, I swear to god…” Dean growled, searching for a threat (a promise) that could adequately sum up how he felt. There wasn’t one.

“I’m doing this to help him,” Cas said, his voice sounding a bit thin, a bit strained, and Dean actually took a good look at him, his heart sinking at what he saw. Cas’s eyes were filled with red-rimmed pain, his posture bent and dejected, and Dean didn’t want to hear what he had to say next.

“You can’t imagine,” Cas began, stressing each syllable and making sure Dean didn’t look away, “the horror of what I saw. You need to understand that- even as strong as Sam is- this is something he will not bounce back from. This is… this needs time.”

“I know,” Dean said, throat full, eyes just the same, “I still wanna see him. He’s my brother.”

Cas shook his head, shifting his stance a little. “Not yet, Dean. Not yet. He– he was in pieces when I found him, do you understand? Strewn about. And the biggest piece… the piece with his head and torso, Lucifer was on it. He was inside of it. And it was screaming. And I will never forget the sight of that, ever. Or the sound. The sound of pure agony. You can’t give Sam a slap on the back and a movie and some space and expect him to slowly get back on his feet. You can’t have one emotional talk and expect him to pick up a gun and go after Amara. This is a standstill. This is a big shift.”

Dean stayed quiet, slowly processing the words, his mind drawing up a technicolor image despite himself. He rubbed a hand across his face, breathing in and out shallowly. “Then what do we do?” he croaked, his mouth dry. “What do I do?”

Cas frowned at him. He reached out in a rare display of affection and clapped Dean once on the shoulder before pulling back. “You have to be there for him. You have to be patient. What he needs right now is his big brother.”

Dean nodded, his movements jerky and awkward as he tried to get his emotions under control. God, years ago for Sam but just days ago for Dean, they’d been together, eating lunch across the table from one another and playing footsie, and now Sam had been gone for ages. Just fucking like that.

He didn’t trust his words, so he nodded again, and Cas seemed to get the idea. He nodded back before stepping out of the way, freeing the door to Dean, only now, he wasn’t as sure that he wanted to go in at all.

He thought back to Sam’s nightmares as a child. They had been cured with touch, with his arms around his baby brother, and that didn’t change when Sam got older and the visions came. He remembered a moment just weeks after they got back on the road together, out in some motel near Pasadena. Sam had shot up from a nightmare, slowly shaking off the throes like cobwebs. He kept looking over at Dean longingly, with this puppydog look on his face that made him look ten years younger. Their unspoken tacit understanding of each other still worked just as fine as ever. He’d walked over and plopped down onto Sam’s bed, flipping through channels and flinging an arm around Sam, and Sam had relaxed immediately, the dreams failing to phase him any longer.

As Cas disappeared to who-knew-where, Dean tried to visualize Sam’s hurt like one big nightmare, like Sam was little again and just needed Dean for him to be alright. If he could fix Sam like that, if he could get past all the crap their past had flung at them and used to split them apart, then maybe things could get better than just alright. Maybe they could be like kids again. He hadn’t really touched Sam in awhile, months maybe, and the realization hit him hard like a punch to the face. He knew without a doubt that Sam had to be aching for it, now more than ever.

Sam needed him. Long ago, he’d made a vow to always protect him, to keep him safe, and Dean wasn’t going to go back on his word now just because things were tough.

He loved Sam too much to even consider that.

***

Cas had put him back together and taken him out of There, taken him away, but he couldn’t convince himself. He had a little mantra going in his head, and it was supposed to make him feel safe, feel free, but the shame kept him caged. His foolishness, his bullshit conviction, but worst of all, how easily he bent, how quickly the devil’s silver tongue got into his head and into his mouth, were what kept him sinking lower and lower.

He shook his head, setting his hair flying. He ran his hands up and down his body, fighting back bile and revulsion, just trying to make sure he wasn’t covered in burns and scars or stitched together at the joints like a doll. Lucifer’s doll.

“God,” he whimpered, twisting a hand through his greasy hair and shivering.

He felt like shit. There was no other way to say it. The memories were so constant that he was practically still there being torn apart. Earlier, he’d covered his mirror with a shirt, unable to look at his reflection, unable to look himself in the eye. He could hardly tolerate touching himself, either, and just existing in his own despicable body was a huge feat. He honestly wasn’t even quite sure how he managed it all. Others might call him brave but he knew the truth, knew one thing for sure: he was weak. He was disgusting. There was a reason his brother kept pulling away from him, there was a reason he had no friends, there was a reason he had the devils hands on him. He had no one else to blame but himself.

When Cas had brought him here, he’d been in one piece and also wearing pajamas, which he was grateful for. He’d read about soft fabrics and low lights helping those with anxiety disorders, and it seemed to be that Cas had put a similar idea to use. Only the light to the little bathroom was on, sending a wide shard of dull light across Sam’s floor.

He shivered again. He pulled the blankets up over himself, hugging his knees close to chest. He blinked rapidly, trying to dispel cold thoughts, burning thoughts, and sickly thoughts, focusing on the warmth of the sheets. He measured each and every exhale, counting the seconds, begging his heart to slow down and stop behaving like a scared rabbit’s, but it was no use. He was paranoid, he was skittish, he’d learned not to ever trust getting out of hell as really getting out of hell. Time had proven that was wishful thinking.

He’d been given a brief moment of respite, though, and he was going to make the most of it or die trying.

He looked down at his knees. His fair fell into his face, and he didn’t bother with pushing it away. He thought back to who he was before with complete detachment, hardly recognizing the human being, the personality he’d been before. He had all the memories, but they were in the third person, they had no emotional connection to him. Sam had a brother and Sam was smart, Sam was stubborn, but who was _he_? He didn’t feel anything like Sam. He didn’t feel like anything worth a damn, really. He felt nameless.

The door knob creaked as it turned and his head shot up, eyeing it warily. The door pushed slowly open and he made a split-second decision, scrambling backward to push himself into the furthest corner, pressing himself backward until the walls were bruising his shoulders, scrabbling to stay back and hidden.

A man walked in. A man–oh god.

Oh, no. No, no, _no_.

It was Dean.

It was Dean, and Sam hadn’t recognized him. Dean was the one burst of memory that felt real, that had emotions tied up and curled with it; scents and sensations, laughter and tears, and everything, all the pieces of his life that he connected with, they were all Dean.

And Sam hadn’t fucking recognized him.

He let out a quiet moan, a noise of animalistic pain, and Dean froze in his tracks, his eyes going huge as he gazed at Sam, adam’s apple bobbing. They stood for several moments like that, staring one another down. Dean blinked twice and fell out of his reverie, taking another careful step forward.

“Sammy?” he asked quietly, and Sam’s heart reached out and ached in response, reviving itself after a cold, hard dormancy. “Sammy, can you come out from there?”

Sam didn’t know how to respond. For a brief moment, the entire English language evaded him, and he gaped, looking at Dean’s green eyes and his pale freckles and his scruff, growing out longer after being forgotten in all of Dean’s panic. All of his features were so familiar, yet ancient to Sam, an artifact of another time, images that had been slowly yellowing and decaying in his mind.

Dean took another step, reaching the bed, the only obstacle between them. “Sam?”

Sam swallowed and took a risk. “Is that me?” he whispered, watching the emotions flit across Dean’s eyes. “Do you look at me and… and see Sam?”

Dean frowned. “Yeah, Sammy, I do. You wanna come out now?”

Sam shook his head roughly. He licked his lips. “You don’t see anything worse?”

Dean’s brows scrunched closer together. “Sam, what?”

Sam knew he was making a fool out of himself, but he had to be sure. “You don’t see anything worse than Sam? Only him? Nothing worse?”

Dean’s face softened, all the confusion smoothening out into concern and unbridled affection. “No, Sammy, no. Just you, got it? Just a scared little brother. Please come out.”

Sam rolled his shoulders and let out a breath, creeping forward to stand on the other side of the bed from Dean.

Dean reached out and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam felt his eyes roll back as he scrambled backward again, the touch burning into his shoulder, the touch that he knew would push him down, pin him to the ground, hurt him. “No!” he barked, his back thumping up against the wall. “Why would you–? Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me.” He swallowed back a cry, squeezing his eyes shut tight as his body gave itself to minute trembles, twitching as the fear washed over him, familiar to him but no less potent.

He heard Dean’s voice, raised in panic, but the words were dull and drowned out by blood rush. He wanted to disappear into the wall, to be hidden from sight, from all predators, and a tiny piece of rational brain buried deep inside his head was disgusted at his flight or flight reflex, so unlike the person in his memories.

“Sam,” Dean’s voice got through to him, static and weak like a radio’s poor reception. “Sam, it’s me, I swear, god, it’s just me, I promise. I won’t do anything. You know me, Sammy, _please._ ”

The crack in Dean’s voice caused Sam to open his eyes and look up. His eyes widened, staring at Dean’s red, shiny eyes and his wobbling lower lip.

“It’s just me,” Dean repeated again, his voice hoarse and low, a desperate plea.

Sam gave up trying to hold back the trembles, instead giving himself over to the quaking of his bones as he regarded Dean from under his eyelashes. “Prove it,” he stuttered. curling his fidgeting hands up to his chest.

“I don’t know how,” Dean said, his tone pained. “How can I prove it to you?”

Sam thought for a moment. He did sound like Dean, and looked like him, too, but that was never a confirmation of anything. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, biting his lip. “Don’t touch me.”

Dean’s face broke down for a split second, crumbling into itself, but he recovered, wiping at his eyes with the bases of his palms. “Okay, you got it. No touching. It _is_ me, okay? It’s your brother, Dean. You’re safe now, Sammy. You’ll never, ever go back there.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You said that last time.”

“And I meant it,” Dean rasped, sitting down on the bed and leaning back against the headboard, casually crossing his ankles. He covered his eyes with his hands. “I tried to stop this all from happening, God knows I tried.”

Sam watched him, pinning his eyes to Dean’s face, wary of every little movement, racing to think of motives for anything this man did. He still might just be a facade, a little puppet made out of illusion, nothing more. Sam couldn’t be sure. “Why weren’t you there?” he asked despite his reservations.

Dean turned his face up to meet Sam’s eyes. “Amara tricked me,” he told Sam, “I was… somewhere. I was about to answer your first call when she showed up, and she did something to me, took my focus. I didn’t hear the rest of your calls. I was with her for so long without realizing it. I was a fool,” he spat, his lip curling up. His eyes darted away from Sam’s, his lids lowered. “If she had tried to find me just one minute later. If I had just answered your call.”

Sam blinked back wetness. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said, “it was mine. I was so dumb, so blinded with faith in God. I just wanted it to be Him. I had no proof. And I jumped the gun anyway, got myself in Lucifer’s hands again. It’s my fault.”

Dean shook his head. “You couldn’t have known either way,” he replied. “We were desperate for a way to kill Amara. We thought you had one. That’s all it was.”

“So… not your fault,” Sam murmured, and he watched as a smile turned up Dean’s lips.

“Nobody’s fault,” he allowed, blinking up at Sam.

Sam’s heart caught in his throat. He went out on a limb and carefully sat down on the very edge of the bed, poised and ready to run if need be. He was careful to avoid the touch of Dean’s legs to his back, keeping Dean in his periphery but staring at the wall.

“I will never be okay,” he said, saying each syllable carefully as to not trip over the words, “and if you’re really Dean, then I’m sorry. If you want to leave and find someone else to go after Amara with you, I won’t blame you at all. But I can’t do anything. I’m a stupid obligation, nothing else.”

They fell into silence, and Sam’s cheeks and ears burned. He picked at the stitches in the comforter, his throat feeling more and more clogged with each damning, judgemental second that passed without Dean’s voice. His eyes watered and he sighed shakily, wanting nothing more than for Lucifer to drop the game and just get it over with. Or, if by some slim chance it was real, he wanted to die.

“That ain’t true,” Dean finally coughed, sitting up straighter, trying to meet Sam’s eye but Sam refused to give in, using up his last bit of pride. “You’re not stupid, Sam. You’re the smartest, kindest person I know, and this shouldn’t have ever happened to you in the first place. And for that… I’m sorry, kiddo.”

Sam snuck a glance at him, his head ducked low. Dean was staring at him with an intensity that was almost scary, and Sam itched to get up and slip away, but he forced himself to remain. His old instincts were kicking back up, and he could feel the pain radiating from Dean, the grief, the worry.

Those familiar little feelings bolstered his confidence, and he raised his head to meet Dean’s gaze properly. “I’m still all broken,” he finally said, “people need help and I can’t do it. But you still can.”

Dean shook his head, giving Sam a lopsided, rueful grin. “Not without you,” he said, his voice a gravelly, low murmur that was seeping into Sam’s bones like ambrosia, lulling him toward serenity.

Sam sighed, letting his hands fall into his lap. “Then what do we do? What–what happens now?”

Dean cleared his throat and shuffled further. Sam jolted and twitched backward by instinct alone, his pupils shrinking as his animal brain fought to regain control. Dean slowly leaned back, worrying his lip between his teeth as he watched Sam. “We focus on you,” he said after waiting until Sam settled back into his little perch on the bedside.

“But–”

“Sam,” Dean whispered, stealing all of Sam’s words away, “it honestly doesn’t matter. Just pretend you’re sick, okay? You got the flu and it’s making you feverish, making you feel like shit. What always made you feel better? Besides soup n’ meds n’ things, I mean.”

Sam flushed and stared down at Dean’s fingers, bruised and bumpy. “You,” he mumbled in response.

Dean hummed in the back of his throat, a little pleased noise. “That’s right,” he said, his confidence ever contagious, “I always got you better. Not gonna stop now.”

Sam’s mouth felt dry and his skin still pricked with every single movement, every single second, but he didn’t look away again, hope shoving its way past all his barriers and making him weak with want. He wanted Dean, and if this really was Dean, he was right here, looking at Sam like a wedded man at his lifelong spouse. “And it’s real?” he asked in a tiny voice, begging Dean’s face not to contort or sluice away in wet strips.

Dean’s eyes welled up, and he lifted a hand up, to touch Sam’s knee or caress his cheek or something, but Sam inched backward and Dean dropped it, looking like someone had thrown away all his sunshine. “It’s real, Sammy.”

Sam swallowed. He nodded, paused, and nodded again, trying to cement his belief with his movements. He blinked past a stinging in his eyes and nodded once more, staring up at Dean’s furrowed brow, at Dean’s jutting lip.

“Okay,” he said, “maybe I believe you.”

Dean smiled and chuckled. “Maybe’s good enough for me right now. We’ll keep getting you better, 'kay? You must be starving, do you want some soup? You could probably use some chicken soup, huh?”

Sam breathed out. “'Cause I’m sick,” he ventured, watching Dean for a reaction.

Dean smiled again. “'Cause you’re sick, and food will make you better. So, whaddaya say?”

Sam stood above Dean. He looked around the barren room, at his shelf of books, his lumpy mattress with his beautiful brother on it, his laptop. It seemed real enough, and even if it wasn’t, he could appreciate one last illusion before giving everything up. He could memorize this one moment, and try to stay in it forever. With Dean.

“Okay,” he said, “with some root beer.”

Dean beamed, toothily and childishly giddish, and got up as well, careful to keep his distance even though Sam could see it pained him. Dean clapped his hands together. “Good start. Some root beer and chicken soup for my brother, coming right up,” he said, heading for the door.

Like he had all his life, Sam followed after Dean, staring at the outline of his shoulders under his shirt, praying to a God he was almost certain didn’t exist that this could stay, that he could have this, that he could get better.

Like Dean said, it was a good start.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments really appreciated <3


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